A Heritage Not So Fruitful
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: Rashness is one matter-"nonchalance," another. Narcissa has little time to coddle Bellatrix, especially when faced with implications far worse than Dementors and Azkaban.


**Disclaimer: **HP isn't mine.

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><p><strong>:A Heritage Not So Fruitful:<strong>

"_Forwardness is uncouth._" Druella instilled in Narcissa, from her birth. _"It is the highest of sins. Hold all impudence, my dear, and discord shall not befall you." _This heart to heart forever manifested itself on the rare occasion that the blonde took the initiative to properly acknowledge the existence of her equally fair offspring.

But as Narcissa stood in the drawing room, her eardrums subjected to the passionate cries of two infants—one, held by an irritated Lucius—and the other, steadied by Narcissa herself—she genuinely pondered, for the very first time, how a child could be so thick as to not take such words with a grain of sand, even spoken by one's mother.

The blonde witch raised her head, mustering all regality within, and peered, over dark curls, at her husband. Lucius's light grey eyes were cold—colder than _usual_—his patience having evaporated mere moments after his sister-in-law's unannounced arrival. Bellatrix had staggered from the fireplace into Narcissa's waiting arms, incapable of producing a coherent sentence.

The scene was an unfathomable one. Bellatrix Lestrange was a proud woman, envied by the masses—and likewise, feared. She was gorgeous; she was powerful; she was _unwavering_. And that is precisely why no one would have believed her youngest sister to be the only reason the haughty Madam Lestrange had not yet fallen to her knees, beaten. This is _precisely _whyit would be laughable to claim her sobbing—an inconceivable act, for the soulless—survived that of her young nephew.

The elder of the sisters gasped for air, shaking from head to toe, head buried in the younger's chest, as if to shield herself from a murderer's onslaught. Lucius snorted, obviously humored by what he considered a "show," but Narcissa felt her sister tense and narrowed her eyes, warningly. Vulnerable, Bellatrix was. Keen to forgive, Bellatrix was not.

Finally, as if to prove _"yes, we men are more foolish than we appear,"_ the wizard rolled his eyes and stood. "Dobby!"

A house-elf Apparated, in less than a half second, eager to be of service. "Yes, master! Dobby is happy to be of service!"

"If that is true, Dobby, you will put Draco to bed without another word."

And with that, Lucius deposited his son in the creature's arms. Dobby's eyes widened, both at the shock of cradling the miniature Master Lucius and the awkwardness of not being expected to respond with yet another, "Yes, master."

Narcissa scowled at her husband as Bellatrix's trembling subsided. She was beside herself with rage, unable to discern if anger had arisen because a filthy rodent _touched_ her son or if it stemmed from the filthy rodent having _Disapparated _with her son. A raised hand silenced her, just as she poised to part her lips.

"Bellatrix," Lucius drawled, all charades of sympathy dissolved, "_Leave_. I must be at work in four hours' time, and, listen to me, carefully," he urged, for sobs were now sniffles, "The-Dark-Lord-is-**GONE**-and-He-**WILL****-****NOT-RETURN**."

Bellatrix's voice splintered the silence, just as the clock struck three. "Cissy…_please._"

Two words. It was _amazing, _the strengths of a pet name and an appeal. For a second there, Narcissa almost conceded defeat—she could picture nothing but her needy, younger self, begging, "Bella, _please_,tell me about the ball," and "Bella, _please_, tell me where Andy's gone." Then, reality struck, and fury overwhelmed her senses. Blue eyes darted upstairs, to Draco's room and glanced downward, to Bellatrix's left forearm. Narcissa frowned, the horror of repercussions becoming too great.

"Bella," she breathed, uneasily, opening her eyes and looking into dark grey, "With the state of the Longbottoms…"

The last, definitive image Narcissa had of Bellatrix was the brunette's face distorting, almost grotesquely, before the former tossed her baby sister away. Narcissa hit the hardwood with a thud, gingerly lifting the limb she swore was broken. Time moved slowly, Lucius's wand rammed directly into her sister's windpipe, as the former hurled abuses—at him, at her sister, at her nephew, at "false devotion", and jeered something of, "the real meaning of _'Toujours pur'"_—left, right, and center.

"Never did mature, your sister," Lucius reflected, after the Death Eater departed. "Are you all right?" His thumb concernedly stroked Narcissa's cheek.

She waved her hand, so as to brush him off. With Regulus dead and Sirius halfway to Azkaban, the Blacks were doomed to perish. There would be no future generations of siblings and cousins to carry the historic name, no more balls at 12 Grimmauld Place, no more betrothals….

"I'm going to bed," she sighed, without waiting for acceptance. Narcissa ascended the steps, recalling a sister lost long ago and the ticking time bomb she'd soon be bereaved of.

_The last of the Blacks. Are you pleased, mot__her?_

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><p><strong>Fin.<strong>

_Favorite, if you wish, but reviews are appreciated more so!_


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